


wear it like armor

by sansast4rk



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Political Jon Snow, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, everything is the same as the show EXCEPT for the finale, jonsa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-03-10 04:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18930964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansast4rk/pseuds/sansast4rk
Summary: When Grey Worm brings up the terms of Jon's punishment during the council meeting in King's Landing, Sansa can only think of one thing to do to save him and bring him home: tell them Jon's true name. But when Jon gets pardoned, Grey Worm decides to take matters into his own hands—which leads to Sansa tending to his wounds at his bedside, and learning the real reason why he followed the dragon queen.(Basically a partial rewrite of 8x06 and what would happen afterwards.)





	1. Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

> It really bugged me that 1) Jon didn't get to go home to Winterfell with Sansa, 2) they never resolved any of their fights before leaving, and 3) none of his family fought against the council to get him free. smh. So I wrote this to pretend none of that ending happened. 
> 
> Also, Jon gives the crown up to Bran so he can go home. 
> 
> (This doesn't go into a lot of detail into how all of the politics happened, it's pretty much just about Sansa/Jon taking care of each other after they get home.)

Jon’s been back home at Winterfell for over two full days now, but because of his wounds, Maester Wolkan advised him to be put on bed rest indefinitely for his injuries to properly heal.

From the information she gathered from Maester Wolkan, Jon apparently has a long, deep gash beneath his ribs on his left side, and he also has a shallow stab wound on his lower stomach, near his right hip. He’ll be fine with proper care for the wounds, Maester Wolkan told her, but still, she worries. She just doesn’t show it.

She hugged him when he returned home from King’s Landing, but he was so badly hurt and exhausted from the painful journey back home, that she didn’t get to say much of anything. He’s been healing and she’s been ruling, but she still isn’t sure of where they stand with each other.

Sansa hasn’t asked him any detailed questions about his injuries, so she’s been dwelling on all of the very few things he _did_ tell her, which is that it was Grey Worm’s spear that cut and stabbed him. She doesn’t have to think too hard to understand _why_ Grey Worm did it, but she still feels a deep, burning anger at the thought.

Jon, who always does the right thing even when he knows he could face (deathly) backlash from it, and have to deal with the guilt of it for as long as he lives.

But still, as much as she wishes it weren’t true, he did play a role in the burning of King’s Landing—and that’s something that haunts them _both_ now. He also didn’t listen to Sansa when she warned him of Daenerys, and didn’t listen to her when she said their men needed to rest before the war, either. Did he really love the dragon queen? Does he still—even when she’s dead, and he’s the one who passed the sentence?

 _Why does it matter?_ she thinks as she nears his chambers, biting the inside of her cheek nervously. _It isn’t as if he would want you even if he wasn’t in love with her._

She knows she should be angry with him for not listening to her, and for being _stupid_ like her father and Robb had been,and she was preparing herself for the anger to come every day that she waited for him to return. But once he _did_ return home weeks later and she saw the guilt and self-loathing that was already eating away at him, she knew he didn’t need more on top of it. Especially not from his family. So she couldn’t find it in herself to be angry with him—only sad that it all happened the way it did.

She knocks on his chamber door, pulling herself together, willing herself to keep composed. She’s doing this because he’s hurt and needs someone to tend to his wounds because he can’t on his own, and she’s family. It makes sense that she would help him—it’s her _duty_ to do so _,_ even.

But her hands still shake, even though she’s always prided herself in the steadiness of them. She knows it’s because she misses him so badly, and she hasn’t spoken to him in private since he and the dragon queen arrived at Winterfell _months_ ago. And even then, their conversation was about Daenerys—not about him or what he’s been through, or how she ruled the North while he was away.

Now that his queen is dead, will they even have anything to say to each other anymore? It used to come so easily to them both, before Jon left for Dragonstone. But now after all of the tragedy and betrayal, it doesn’t feel the same. And that hurts her so badly she weeps at night into her pillow, when she no longer has to prove to be the always-strong-and-resilient Queen in the North.

She enters his chambers after a few soft knocks, assuming he’s probably resting and not wanting to wake him. But when she steps inside, feeling her heart race in her chest, Jon’s already awake and looking at her—lit in hues of warm oranges from the crackling fire across from him.

“Sansa,” he mutters out hoarsely, using his palms to push himself up slightly in his bed. He winces at the pain from it, and she rushes over and lets out a sigh, setting her supplies down on the bed so she can help him.

“You shouldn’t be trying to sit up like this yourself,” she tells him with a shake of her head, keeping her voice and emotions and movements entirely controlled so that he can’t see what she _really_ feels, and how confused she is about all of this. Are they even on good terms? Should she even _be_ here? “You could hurt yourself even _worse_ when you’re supposed to be healing. Now lay down and rest.”

He sighs and allows her to help him slowly ease back down again, relaxing his head against the pillow. He tries not to make a pained face, but she sees the clench of his jaw, and the way he takes in a sharp breath, and she pretends not to notice it for his sake.

She gulps when she thinks of how he rode home from King’s Landing this badly hurt.

“How did it happen?” she asks, taking in a breath as she looks in his eyes. It’s difficult but she does, because Jon would _really_ wonder what was wrong if she couldn’t even _look_ at him properly.

He sighs as he prepares to retell it, before scrubbing a hand across his beard and speaking.

He tells her how it was Grey Worm who gave him his injuries—that he found Jon after hearing he was pardoned for killing the queen, and that he was mostly pardoned because Sansa _herself_ was the one to bring up Jon’s true parentage when they were deciding on his sentence.

But Grey Worm would not allow the man who betrayed his queen to go on unscathed from punishment for treason. So he waited two days after Sansa had gone home to Winterfell to even _find_ Jon, and snuck in his chambers while he slept so he could make him pay for his crimes against their queen.

Sansa finds out that Jon—who didn’t even have enough time to grab Longclaw from his bedside—would have _died_ if it hadn’t been for Arya being there at the right time (but they both knew it wasn’t a coincidence for her to be there so late—she had been following Grey Worm because she knew he would try and kill Jon after hearing of his pardon.)

After Grey Worm had already cut him and stabbed him, and he was lying on the ground and scrambling for his sword, Arya pierced Needle through Grey Worm herself before he could deliver the final stab to Jon’s already-scarred heart.

Jon—who was so deeply disturbed to even _recount_ the story—told Sansa then of how Arya looked at Jon sadly, before cutting Grey Worm’s face off. He watched as she did it, he said—unable to look away as hard as he tried—and then when she finished, she had looked at him again and said: _“Tell Tyrion it was an Unsullied soldier who hurt you and not Grey Worm. Don’t worry about the Unsullied or Dothraki—I’ll take care of them. Stay here and I’ll send a Maester.”_

And then she had hugged him in a sad-yet-rushed goodbye, before disappearing with the face of the man who tried to murder him in his own chambers.

He had no idea what any of it meant (and wasn’t fully sure it wasn’t the blood loss playing tricks on his mind, he confessed to Sansa), but as he described it, she understood what Arya was doing before he even told it to her.

Soon after he explained that Tyrion had approached him a day later and said that somehow (out of seemingly _nowhere)_ Grey Worm had put to rest his hatred for Jon Snow and sailed back to Essos with the Dothraki and the rest of the Unsullied. And after almost being murdered (again), he understood that it was Arya who had lead them back across the narrow sea. He didn’t know how, and didn’t understand the magic the way Sansa (partly) did, but the slight, hopeful smile on his face while he tells her means he knows Arya saved him, too. And that she would come back to say a _real_ goodbye after she finished her task.

After Jon finishes his recount of what happened, Sansa takes in a breath and then lets _out_ that breath, smiling herself at the thought of her younger sister playing such a vital role in the safety of her family—in the safety of her pack.

Time passes as her and Jon both think in silence, and so she pulls the smile from her face and nods, focusing back on what she came here to do in the first place.

“I need to check your wounds,” she clears her throat, before pulling back the furs that are covering his chest. Her eyes very carefully look only at his body where his bandages are, and she doesn’t allow them to venture anywhere else.

She reaches down to replace the old, bloodied bandages with the new ones she brought; her face wiped entirely of emotion. Before her hand can even reach him, though, he grabs it to stop her—the confusion evident on his face. She swallows thickly then, pretending to not be hurt by him recoiling from her touch.

“Where’s Maester Wolkan?” Jon asks hoarsely, and she pulls her arm out of his loose grip, before aimlessly sorting through her supplies just to distract herself.

“He was busy tending to others, and it was time to check on your healing and replace your bandages. So I came in his stead.” she replies, breathing in deeply and finally turning to look at him again. She pushes away any and all emotions, and keeps her mind set on what she came in here to do. “Now let me help.”

He looks at her for a few beats, darting his eyes between hers, before breaking the eye contact and looking away with a defeated sigh. She takes that as his permission (as much as it hurts), and turns her attention back to the task at hand.

She can feel his eyes on her as she carefully unravels the bandage beneath his ribs, and assesses the damage. She tries to ignore his stares because she’s trying to keep her hands steady, but feeling him watching her so intently only _makes_ it a problem.

“I know what I’m doing, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she tells him, keeping her eyes and hands focused on slightly loosening the thread of his stitches as diligently as she can. She gulps, but tries not to show it. “After you left for King’s Landing, they needed as many hands they could get to help the injured after the battle. I learned enough.”

“I wasn’t worried,” he tells her sincerely, and she pauses for a moment and fights the urge to look up at him. But she doesn’t. Instead she keeps going, and clears her throat quietly.

“I didn’t see what they looked like when you first arrived, but they seem to be healing well,” she tells him, before reaching down for the salve in her lap. She keeps her eyes on that still, as she says, “This will sting quite a bit, but it won’t last long and it helps the speed of the healing process.”

She glances up for only a second to see him nod, before she scoops it up with her fingers and begins to slowly apply it to the gashes in his skin—trailing it along his side, all the way down the length of it which stops right above his abdomen. She swallows again.

She sees him turn slightly and look out his window to prepare himself for the pain (or maybe he just doesn’t want to look at the girl who betrayed his trust any longer than he has to.)

Without his eyes following her every movement, _her_ eyes now fall to his chest and then stomach, no matter how hard she wills herself not to. But his skin (and the muscles beneath it) are shining with the sweat of a breaking fever, and she gulps when she sees the dark trail of hair that begins under his belly button and disappears beneath the furs covering him, and her eyes take in the knife scars he bears on his chest from yet _another_ betrayal.

She looks away in a deep shame that’s built on a selfishness she’s been desperately trying to rid herself of. It’s selfish because he’s her cousin and doesn’t see her the way she sees him, and it’s selfish because he just killed the queen he _loved_ only a little over a month ago, and it’s selfish because he’s going through so much torment and grief and guilt right now, and she’s still thinking of her own twisted wants as he lies here in pain.

She mentally scolds herself for it and distracts her mind by tucking the salve away while she lets out an unsteady breath.

Jon’s fine for a few moments after she’s finished applying the ointment, but then he suddenly gasps and squeezes his eyes shut at the pain, and his body tenses and his fist grips intensely at the side of his bed.

She wishes he would reach for her hand in comfort (while not knowing he would be comforting _her,_ too), but he doesn’t.

 _He didn’t even want you to tend to his wounds if it meant you had to touch him,_ she thinks, swallowing back the ridiculous hopes that she herself wishes she could crush for good. _So why would he reach out for your comfort willingly?_

She pushes it all away and looks at him, noticing by his easing muscles and loosening grip on the bed that his pain must be lessening now.

“Alright?” she asks him quietly, and it takes a few moments, but he nods in reply—his eyes still shut. He parts his lips and lets out a labored breath, before reaching up and pushing the sweat from his forehead.

“Suppose you weren’t lying about the stinging, then,” he blinks his eyes open and gives an exhausted smile, before finally relaxing back into the bed again while he catches his breath.

“I wish I had been,” she gives a small laugh, feeling her own shoulders relax now, too. She lets out a relieved breath, before tearing her eyes from his again and looking down. She’s afraid that if she looks at him back for too long, she may lose all the progress she’s made in pushing all of this away.  

But he must not understand what she’s doing, because it’s only _seconds_ after she’s looked away that he calls her back by saying her name.

She breathes in through her nose as she feels the air between them shift, and reluctantly looks up to meet his eyes again. He looks so much different with his hair let down and his beard untrimmed—so much older and worn now than the insecure boy she once knew. He’s so strikingly beautiful-yet-broken that she feels her heart ache the longer she takes him all in. He’s been through so much, but he’s finally home again.

She wonders if he sees it in _her_ —how she’s changed. Does he notice it about her the way she does about him? Does he care?

“Your fever is breaking, which is good,” she straightens up, composing herself again now. He looks at her and watches her movements, but doesn’t say anything. “You’ll feel much better once you cool down a bit.”

She reaches down and grabs the cold, damp rag she brought along with the salve and bandages, before moving up slightly on the bed to get closer. She should have known how stupid it was to come here alone to take care of a feverish, half-naked Jon when she feels the way she does, and now she regrets it. Because she’s so close to him now, and she has to reach up and push away the dark mess of unkept curls that are sticking to his forehead with sweat, and she can hardly even _breathe_ anymore.

She tucks the hair away with the pads of her fingers, and again ignores the feel of his eyes on her as she sets the cool rag to his warm forehead.

She can feel the heat of his skin even through the cold cloth, can see the sweat on his neck and chest. But once she moves slightly down to press it to his cheek, he reaches up and sets his hand on hers to stop her. He sighs and her eyes fall, and she grits her teeth in hopes it can keep her strong.

“You don’t have to take care of me like this,” he tells her, his voice low and sad as his hand settles on her wrist now. “I don’t deserve it. Not from you. I’m sure the Queen in the North has more important things to do, anyway.”

He smiles weakly then, but she doesn’t return it. Instead she pulls her hand back abruptly, letting his fall back on the bed as she looks at him. She’s confused, mostly, and at a loss for words. He just takes in a breath as she gathers her thoughts.

“It’s partly my fault you’re in this position in the _first_ place. I told your secret when I swore I wouldn’t, and I put you in danger because of it. Twice,” she looks at him, hoping he sees how terrible she feels for it. “I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?”

“It had to be done,” he replies, looking up at her with a shake of his head. “All of it happened the way it was supposed to, Bran said—as painful as it was. You saved me, Sansa; in more ways than one. There’s nothing to forgive.”

She thinks back to how he said those same words to her what felt like a _lifetime_ ago at Castle Black; but this time she gulps and forces a smile, wondering if she even _deserves_ it now. Jon is always forgiving, even when he _shouldn’t_ be at times.

“If anything, I should be apologizing to _you,”_ he tells her, and she sighs as she shakes her head and reaches up again, setting the cool rag to his skin to distract herself so she doesn’t have to look in his eyes while he tells her that.

She knows it’s time they finally talk about everything they didn’t have a chance to before. And even though she knows they need it, there’s a part of her that’s afraid to know the truth—terrified it’s something she doesn’t want to hear _(I did love her)_ and she’ll never be able to have hope in a pretend reason ever again.

“I made a horrible, arrogant mistake,” He admits then, keeping his demeanor as confident as he can so that she doesn’t see the broken man beneath the strong one. But as hard as he tries to hide it, he can’t. Not fully.

It’s clear he’s desperately pulling himself together, and showing the last bit of composure he has left to her after everything he’s been through, because he believes he _has_ to. He believes that he still has to be the protector of the pack, and Sansa loves and hates him for that.

“I knew you were right when you told me about her. I had known it already for a while, but I was stupid enough to believe I could take care of it, and bring the darkness out of her and replace it with good. But I couldn’t. And because of me, because of my mistakes...thousands of innocents were burned.” he breathes out and shakes his head, as if he still hasn’t accepted it all as true. “Tyrion and I both underestimated how bad it could get. We thought we could help control her urges, and tame them, but even then we _never_ believed she would actually—”

His words start to grow more desperate now and disbelieving, before he stops himself. He doesn’t want to beg for her forgiveness, because he doesn’t want her pity. He knows he was wrong and believes that he doesn’t deserve forgiveness from the family he betrayed, so he’s now only accepting the punishment he thrust upon himself: to live in guilt and misery forever—even when he’s finally back home at Winterfell, and the wars he fought so long for are won.

He gulps, then, and continues, and her heart pounds as she moves the cloth down to his neck, keeping her focus on that so he can’t see how upset she truly is.

“But none of that matters anymore, because whatever my intentions, there are still so many lives lost,” he tells her quietly, and she swallows back all of her feelings as she continues to move the cloth down across his collarbone with carefully-still hands. But then _his_ hand settles on hers to gain her full attention, and then he squeezes it gently in his own. She breathes out and stops her movement, letting out an uneven breath as she finally looks up at him—in his eyes. They dart between her own, and no matter _how_ many times they look at each other, she still loses her breath. “Sansa, I should have told you. I should have told you, and Bran, and Arya what I had been doing—what I was trying to prevent. I was just afraid that it would put you all in danger of her, but that ended up happening regardless. I wish it had been different. I wish I had _done_ things different.”

Sansa can see the guilt in his face. The loss and emptiness, too, but mostly the guilt. The guilt for not telling them the truth sooner—the truth that he was _afraid_ of his dragon queen and what she would do if he denied her, or what she would do if he wasn’t around to talk her down from her uncontrollable temper. And after seeing that side of her, and seeing her dragons, he knew that he had to stay with her until his dying day if it meant he could calm down her worst urges, and protect his family from her.

“You thought you were just going to sacrifice yourself, is that it?” Sansa asks, looking between his eyes while tears form in her own. “Jon, I prayed in the godswood for _months_ for your safety after you left for Dragonstone. I prayed and hoped every day for your return, and then when I got it...you brought _her._ She stole the North from us, and tried to steal _you_ from us, and your love for her made it seem as if you didn’t care that you gave your home up. Or that you gave _us_ up either, for that matter. You made me feel so _alone_ for wanting my people and my home safe. I thought you were happy with her, and that you cared about her more than the North and your family, and...and I wish you would’ve told me the truth. You hurt me, Jon. So badly.”

His eyebrows are furrowed and his eyes are gentle and caring and sad, and she clenches her jaw to keep herself strong.

“I know,” he whispers, his eyes staring into hers so intensely that she feels like cowering away. But she doesn’t—she holds her ground. “I should have told you and Arya and Bran what I was doing, and how I thought it was the only way to win the war to have her dragons. I wish I hadn’t bent the knee, or left you alone for Dragonstone at all. I would change all of it, if I could. I didn’t know it would end this way—believe me, I didn’t. But that doesn’t take away the hurt I caused you, and I couldn’t be sorrier for it. I’ll never stop being sorry for how much I hurt you, Sansa.”

She parts her lips and takes in a breath—one so deep that she feels dizzy when she lets it back out.

“I know now how much it pained you to pretend for so long,” she squeezes _his_ hand now, gulping. “You hurt me, but I know you were hurting, too. And even then, you were right in some ways—we _couldn’t_ have won the war without her dragons. I know that, I do, I just…wish you would have trusted me.”

“I _do_ trust you,” he replies quickly, attempting to sit up _again_ (as if he already forgot about his wounds.) He winces, and Sansa sighs and helps him lay back down again. “I do, I swear. I was just _afraid_ of what she might do to you. You made your dislike of her very clear, and even though I can’t blame you for it...it made me afraid. She was impulsive, and saw you as a threat, and I knew what she did to people who she saw as a threat. I just wanted you safe, even if that meant keeping it all from you and making you hate me—as hard as that was to do.”

She inhales sharply and nods, looking down at his tough, worn hand on top of her own. She should be happy, shouldn’t she? He couldn’t have ever loved Daenerys—he was only afraid of her, and what she might do. He was only protecting his family and his home.

After failing to give a response, Jon speaks up again. “If you want me gone, Sansa...I’ll leave. I won’t blame you for it—not even for a second.”

“You think I could ever want you to _leave?”_ she scoffs, clenching her jaw as she looks at him. “You’re all I have left, Jon. Arya’s in Essos and Bran and Brienne are in King’s Landing, and...and I would be all alone if you weren’t here. I want you to stay, if that’s what you want as well. We can rebuild Winterfell now without threats or worries of war. I can be happy now, I know it, and I want you here with me as I rule the North the way father did. We’ve both made mistakes, I know, but to me...it all pales in comparison to a life of peace and happiness. I forgive you for your mistakes—of course I do. Just as you’ve forgiven me for mine. You did what you had to do. You saved us, you saved the North, and you saved _Westeros._ You did the right thing—no matter if it hurt me or not. And I’m glad you did.”

His chest contracts with a trembling breath, and his throat rises and falls with a gulp, and she can feel the fire crackling behind her as she wills herself to stay composed. He nods, then, and she smiles and squeezes his hand in her own—her heart pounding erratically in her chest.

After a few beats of silence and heavy breaths and eye contact, she feels that selfishness in her rear it’s head again. So she pulls her eyes and hands from his, before clearing her throat and turning to apply his new bandages.

They sit there wordlessly as she switches back over to tending to him, even though his eyes are _still_ on her. She ignores it, though, and continues on with her duty.

Once she’s finished and he’s patched up with fresh dressings to cover his wounds, she pulls his furs back up and over his chest, before sorting through her supplies one last time.

She pulls out a small vial filled with milk of the poppy, but as soon as Jon recognizes it, he begins to protest.

“You're home and safe, and aren’t currently needed for anything that requires an entirely-clear head. You need as much rest as you can get, Maester Wolkan told me, and this should help with both that and the pain,” she tells him, holding the vial up. “These are his orders, not yours or mine. It will help.”

He looks at it, then at her, before nodding reluctantly. So she grabs the cup of water from the small table beside his bed, and pours as much of the thick liquid into it as she can recall Maester Wolkan telling her to, before swirling the cup to mix it and handing it to Jon. She helps him sit up a bit, and holds the back of his neck while she makes sure he drinks every drop.

He makes a face as he finishes it, and she laughs as she helps him ease back down until he rests against the pillow again, before setting the cup back on the table.

“You’ll start feeling the effects soon, but you shouldn’t fight it. Get rest, Jon, and heal.” she tells him, giving a small smile. “I’ll be back in a bit to check on you, but I suspect you’ll be asleep then. Give into it—it will make it easier. And possibly enjoyable, even.”

“I’ll try,” he nods and gives a quick, exhausted smile, so she gathers her things and stands—knowing she has to return to her queenly obligations.

She turns around to leave him alone in his chambers, then, but before she even gets to the door, he stops her.

“Thank you, Sansa. I mean it.” he tells her—his voice honest and genuine as she stands still in the middle of his chambers. “And I’m sorry I missed your coronation—I tried to make it. I wish I could have.”

Her back is still pointed to him, so she takes a moment to close her eyes and breathe in, before glancing back with a small smile that matches his, nodding. “You were a bit preoccupied, I know.”

He gives her a real, genuine smile then, and she feels her belly twist nervously. They look at each other for another moment, before she turns back around and leaves him to rest. As she opens his door and steps out, she thanks the gods that she’s finally able to _breathe_ again after being so suffocatingly-close to him for far too long.

She’ll be back in time to check up on him, but for now, she has to focus again on her responsibilities. With her mind racing and her hands still trembling slightly, she hopes she’s even still _able_ to focus on her duties, and not on the fact that Jon’s forgiven her, and she’s forgiven him.

She finally has her family here with her now, and because of it, pushing through the rest of her day no longer seems as difficult or daunting as before. She has Jon, now, and he has her, and they’ll find a way to restore Winterfell—their home—together.


	2. Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it took forever for me to publish chapter 2, but I FINALLY found it in me to finish this chapter after being so conflicted with the ending of season 8 lmao. Hope you enjoy!

Later that afternoon she attends two meetings and sends out her ravens for the day, before going to the Great Hall to eat her supper. It’s boring and she’s all alone at the table as she has been for far too long, but she’s the Queen in the North, so she pretends that it’s all alright—pretends that she _isn’t_ lonely.

Once she leaves the Great Hall, she goes to the kitchens and gathers a plate of supper for Jon. He’s probably blissfully unconscious by now, she knows, but she figures that once he wakes up and has an appetite, it’s better that food is already there _waiting_ for him so he doesn’t stupidly try to get up and find it himself.

She doesn’t bother knocking as she approaches his chambers this time; she opens the door and slips in quietly, trying not to wake him.

Jon _is_ asleep—his breath is even, his face is relaxed and content, and his body has finally released itself from the tension he always holds in it. He looks _peaceful,_ for once, after Sansa can’t even recall ever seeing it in him before this moment.

The steadily-dimming flame from his hearth casts shadows across the skin of his chest and face and the shine of his hair, and she breathes in as she sets his food down on the table beside him.

He stirs when she puts it down, shifting slightly and wrapping his arms around the pillow beneath his head, snoring lightly into it.

He always looks so hard and concentrated and tense, but now as he sleeps, he looks so small and innocent and _beautiful._ He looks like he _used_ to—like he did long before he endured all of this heartache and pain.

She pulls her eyes away from the contracting muscles in his chest and arms as he moves, and swallows back the guilt she feels for even _looking_ in the first place. He needs someone to _help_ him—not someone to gaze at him while he lies there unconscious. She feels sick with herself for it.

He lets out a huff of air, his eyes still shut as he slips further into his unconscious state. She smiles at how much younger and _happier_ he looks when his face isn’t taken over with guilt and misery, or wearing all of the losses he’s dealt with for all of these years.

She’s about to turn around and leave, then, but right before she does, his eyebrows begin to furrow as he dreams. He parts his lips and takes in a sharp breath, shifting again, laying fully on his back now.

She watches him carefully—watches his expressions—knowing instinctively that something’s wrong. She can _feel_ it.

He starts to breathe heavily, then, and he’s becoming restless, and the face that was so peaceful just _moments_ ago is now panicked and afraid as he dreams. Her own eyebrows furrow now, watching him intently. But he only gets worse, and now he’s starting to sweat again, and it’s clear to her now that he’s having a nightmare.

She sits down beside him on the bed, swallowing thickly and setting her hand on his shoulder. His chest rises and falls rapidly with his panicked breaths, and his eyes are squeezed shut in fear.

She starts to panic a bit herself, then—taking in a long breath as she tries to think of what to do.

“Jon,” she mutters quietly, softly rubbing the backs of her fingers against the skin of his shoulder. She wants to be gentle so she doesn’t frighten him even _worse,_ but there’s no sign that he even senses her presence at all.

When he doesn’t respond to her touch, she bites her lip worriedly, before reaching up and lightly pushing her fingertips into the roots of his hair. She runs her thumb along his cheekbone, across his scar, trying to smooth away the worry lines that have formed again.

 _“Jon,”_ she says again, this time a bit louder as his breath sharpens.

Before she even has time to _process_ it, Jon’s eyes snap open and his hand clasps roughly around her wrist, pressing it down to the bed. She gasps in surprise, widening her eyes as Jon sits up to look at her.

“Jon, it’s me,” she breathes out, looking between his eyes. His hand is still on her wrist as she desperately says, _“It’s just me.”_

He blinks a few times, lets out a shuddering, terrified breath, before releasing her wrist entirely.

“Sansa,” he pants, swallowing thickly before parting his lips to breathe in again. His eyes are still hazy and lost—muddled by exhaustion and the medicine she gave him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Are you alright?” she asks breathlessly, her voice clearly full of worry.

She wants to reach up and press her hand to his cheek to soothe him and calm him and comfort him, but she isn’t sure if it’s appropriate for her to do so.

It’s not long before the terrified look on his face changes her mind, though; she forgets about feelings and secrets for now, because this is _Jon._ The always strong and resilient Jon—and yet he’s been through too much to hold himself together now.

“I’m here,” she tells him softly, setting her hand to his warm cheek and holding it there.

He takes in a breath and shuts his eyes, using both of his hands to hold her arm and keep her there, keep her close. His hands shake against her, and she feels her heart breaking at the sight of him.

“I’m so sorry if I hurt you—I didn’t mean to,” he tells her in a broken, hoarse voice, and she can feel the roughness of his beard against her palm. “I’ve had nightmares for...a while now. Sometimes I can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t.”

She looks at him sadly, and her heart feels as if it’s being crushed beneath the weight of her ribs.

As she looks at him, and how brave and strong he’s trying to be even when he’s afraid, she wants to tell him: _You can let go. You don’t have to be strong anymore—not around me. The war’s over, and I’m your family. Let go and be weak, for once, if you need it._

But she knows Jon, and knows saying that wouldn’t help. She has to _show_ him.

They look at each other for a few moments, before she breathes in deeply and pulls his head onto her lap—not even taking a _second_ to wonder if it’s okay or not. None of that matters—not even a little. He’s her family, and she loves and cares for him, and he’s going through too much right now for her to pay attention to stupid feelings that don’t even mean anything after the _world_ almost ended.

“I have them too,” she tells him quietly, before pushing her fingers through his hair. She swallows back the lump in her throat, and he hesitates a moment before reaching up and wrapping his arms tightly around her waist with an inhale—burying his face in her dress.

“But you’re home now, and it’s all over,” she assures him, her fingers gently pushing through his curls to calm him. He takes in another uneven breath, his eyes shut and his fingers pressing into her dress at the small of her back as he desperately holds onto her—as if she might leave him, too, if he doesn’t keep her close. “It will only ever be a nightmare from now on—you’ll always awaken in your bed, home and safe. And I’ll always be near in my own chambers if you should need me. You know that.”

His fingers grip her firmer and pull her closer, and her free hand reaches up and brushes her fingers across his back, across the bruised skin and muscle there.

 _It’s the milk of the poppy,_ she thinks to herself as he melts against her, as he finally lets his vulnerabilities show to her now as he weeps into her skirts. _It’s only the milk of the poppy that makes him want your comfort—he would take it from anyone right now._

But she pushes those thoughts away and continues to stroke her hand through his hair, watching him as minutes pass by, and studying how his heavy gasps eventually turn to soft, even breaths, and the tears on his cheeks finally dry there.

She looks down at him and feels the guilt twist in her when she realizes how good it feels to be so close to him—to have his forehead against her belly, and his arms wrapped tightly around her as if he can’t let go (and doesn’t _want_ to.) She breathes in and focuses on the feel of his soft hair between her fingers, and his warm skin beneath her palm, before she sighs and shuts her eyes.

Would he hate her, she wonders, if he knew of her depravity? If he knew of the things that she feels now at the sensation of his arms around her waist, and the set of his chin on the top of her thigh while he cries with fear and despair against her stomach? He’s hurting so badly now, while _she_ is being flooded with shameful thoughts of him—of how it makes her feel to have him so near to her.

She swallows back the lump in her throat—the one that was formed entirely from the incessant self-loathing that overwhelms her thoughts.

“You should sit back now—your stitches could tear easily while you lay this way,” she breathes out quietly and looks down at him, removing her hand from his back. “I’m surprised they haven’t already.”

She had been trying _so hard_ to sound kind and light to keep the sadness out of her voice, that instead the words seemed to come out cold and abrupt and resembling an order instead.

She gently pushes the curls from his face comfortingly, in hopes that he’ll understand her tone wasn’t meant to sound rude—only helpful. He doesn’t seem to notice, though, because as she looks down at him, she sees his whole body rise with a long breath, before he exhales and swallows thickly. As if maybe he could be wanting to savor the moment for as long as he can, too.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have…” he pushes himself up slightly, and he’s hovering in front of her with his thumb unintentionally against the fabric of her dress that rests against her leg. His breath is heavy from the pain and exertion of energy, but she has no excuse for her shortness of breath—not one she could tell _him_ , at least.

“Don’t apologize,” she gives a small smile, hoping he can see that she isn’t angry with him. And she hates herself even more now, because he’ll never feel welcome to hold her close like that again—even when they both need it. “I’m the one who pulled you over here when I shouldn’t have, because Maester Wolkan was very particular about you keeping on your back. The medicine is helping numb it now, but once it wears off you’ll feel your regret in the soreness of your wounds.”

He gives a dazed nod, then, and she grabs his arms to help him lay back down again. She already misses the comforting weight of him against her, and his hands clutching at her to bring her closer.

She takes in a breath and checks his wounds to distract her mind—to think of _anything_ other than how close he had been, and how good it felt.

“I suppose I didn’t give you enough milk of the poppy,” she smiles up at him slightly, and sees his weak smile behind his scraggly beard, and his soft, dark curls falling messily around his face. “You should still be asleep from the dose you had.”

“No more,” he tells her in a low grumble—shutting his eyes and sighing. “It’s already taken enough sense from me.”

She wants to ask what he means by that, but she only looks over at him instead—seeing him sink into his pillow as if he can’t fight the exhaustion for a second longer. She watches him settle into the comfort of his bed—his face nuzzling into the feathered pillow beneath him.

“You should eat your supper soon,” she tells him quietly, her eyes downcast as she moves to stand. “But I’ll leave you to rest now."

Jon’s hand reaches out reflexively and presses to her arm, and his eyes are open now as she looks over at the suddenness of his movements. His lips are parted as if he was going to say something _(don’t go?),_ but he only lets out a long exhale and releases her from his touch, nodding.

She hesitates there, wishing so badly he would just ask her to stay aloud if it’s really what he wants (or _needs,_ like she does.) But when he doesn’t speak again, she takes that as a sign he isn’t going to, and stands again.

Her hands itch with regret as she begins to walk away from him, from his bed, from his chambers. But once she gets to his door to leave, she hesitates there and sighs as she pictures the childlike fear in him as he dreamed, and how he was tossing and turning even despite the milk of the poppy she gave him, and how afraid to be alone he looked only moments ago when she said she would leave him to rest.

“Do you think you’ll have more?” she turns around on her heels abruptly, noticing that his eyes are already on her as she settles her own on him. “Nightmares, I mean. Do you think…”

She gulps then and presses her lips together, before looking at the floor and taking in a breath. “If you fall back asleep, will the nightmares be over?”

She looks over at him and stands up straight, keeping composed—not wanting to show her true feelings. But can he see the real her anyway, though, the way she can see the real him?

“Maybe,” he tells her in a low, tired voice, pushing his palms against the bed to sit up just slightly. “After I wake from them, and try to sleep again...I never know. Not for sure.”

She looks at him for a few moments as she analyzes his answer, feeling her belly twist nervously as she thinks of what to say.

She doesn’t end up saying _anything_ , though, before she moves. She doesn’t think—she just _does_ ; she steps forward until she reaches the other side of his bed, grabbing the spare pillow from it. Then she holds it in her arms as she walks around the bed again, and settles herself against the leather chair that’s sitting only ten feet from him in the corner of his small room.

She feels his eyes on her, and feels the confusion radiating off of him, but she stays there and pretends she _doesn’t_ feel him staring.

“What are you doing?” he finally asks, after waiting so long for _her_ to tell him but never getting it.

“I’m staying here tonight,” she breathes out, smoothing out the fabric of her skirts so she doesn’t have to look at him when she says it. “Just in case you have another nightmare.”

There’s a short pause in response, followed by a long sigh.

“Sansa, you don’t have to-”

“I know that,” she shrugs, cutting him off before he can finish the already-predictable sentence. “I know I don’t _have_ to—you didn’t even ask it of me. But I’m going to.”

She pulls her legs up and tucks her feet beneath her, relishing in the feel of how comfortable she is when she’s near him. She’s no longer the Queen in the North now—the woman who has to be brave and strong and unbreakable in front of the people of Winterfell—she’s just Sansa; a girl who cares for one of the only people she has left. She can be _herself_ with him, and even though she chooses _not_ to be sometimes to guard herself from showing him her vulnerability, she still doesn’t feel _obligated_ to do so. And although he makes her pulse race and her palms dampen with sweat, it’s not stemmed from discomfort—it’s stemmed from the questionable feelings she has for the only man that _hasn’t_ made her feel uncomfortable. The only man left that she _knows_ loves and cares for her, and doesn’t _want_  something from her.

She supposes that’s one of the reasons she feels the way she does—he loves her for _her_ , even when she’s rude and irrational and _stupid,_ even, sometimes. It’s unconditional, she knows, and it’s pure and genuine and _Jon._ She can’t find another way to describe it, that sort of love.

“If you’re going to stay, take the bed and I’ll have the chair,” he tells her, letting out yet _another_ sigh. This one is rooted in exhaustion, though, she thinks. “It’s the least I can do.”

“You’re healing, Jon, from two _stab_ wounds,” she scoffs, shaking her head. “I’m perfectly fine sleeping here.”

“You’re the _Queen in the North,_ Sansa, and you’re going to sleep in an uncomfortable, stiff chair all night and get no rest?” he asks, his voice full of disbelief. “Just let me take it. I don’t mind.”

“My people—who are less fortunate than I am, by the way—sleep in much more uncomfortable positions: the cold, hard floor, beds of straw, the dirt, the ground. They do it every day,” she explains, finally, _finally_ looking over at him. “And I have a perfectly-comfortable chair, a pillow to lay my head on, and a fire to keep me warm. What kind of queen would I be if I couldn’t withstand _half_ of what my people do for one night? _I_ don’t mind—not even a little. I’ve done much worse.”

He doesn’t answer—he only slumps his shoulders in response. She knows she’s won, so she buries her face in the pillow (the one that smells _just like_ him) and shuts her eyes.

“You’ll just have to make the wounded man get up from his resting then, I suppose,” he tells her with a long, very exaggerated breath. It’s such a _Jon_ thing to do and say, that she wants to roll her eyes in response before she’s even reopened them.

But her eyes only fly open at his words instead, and she watches as he attempts to sit up fully—making a face as he does. Her eyes dart to him instantly, and she reacts to it without even having to think.

“Fine!” she tells him, standing to her feet with an annoyed huff—keeping her fists clasped at her sides. She takes in a deep, long breath, and composes herself. “Fine. Just...lie back down. Please.”

He looks at her in slight confusion then, watching as she walks around to the other side of the bed. She then sets the pillow back down and pats it once, before laying down on the bed with her back to him. She keeps as far on the edge as she possibly can, and closes her eyes and sighs in regret as she tucks her hands between her face and the pillow beneath it.

 _I shouldn’t have even stayed,_ she thinks, squeezing her eyes shut and taking in a quiet breath, _I should have left, and gone back to my chambers. What was I thinking?_

“Sansa,” Jon starts, and she swallows thickly as she waits for him to continue. She keeps her eyes closed, and her body is _completely_ still and tense and rigid. “I can still move to the-”

“No,” she replies instantly, clenching her jaw and breathing in, lying there entirely unmoving. “Lie down and get some rest, Jon. You’re still feeling the effects of the medicine; I can tell by the slur of your words and the droop of your eyes. I’ll be right here if you should need me.”

He stays silent for a few long, painful beats, before she opens her eyes and stares at the wall in front of her. She feels like a nuisance to him now; as if he doesn’t even _want_ her here in his chambers—much less in his _bed._

_What’s wrong with me?_

“Are you cold?” he asks, his voice soft and gentle and caring. She swallows thickly, breathing in as she lies there _entirely_ still, keeping her eyes fixed on his window now.

It’s annoying, in a way, that she could be so agitated by the whole situation, and he’s only still thinking of _her._ And then she feels guilt for even finding his thoughtfulness so _frustrating,_ but it’s only because she wishes she could be as kind and caring as he always _naturally_ is. It comes so easily to him, and she wishes so badly it could for her, too.

“I’m fine,” she tells him, shifting slightly so she doesn’t seem _too_ rigid. “Thank you, though.”

She’s _sure_ she must look like a statue lying next to him now, but it’s only because she’s _afraid._ She’s afraid of how close she is to him, and how _stupid_ it was of her to let herself do so when she knows her unnatural feelings for him. The guilt twists in her belly like a knife, and the silence in his chambers is _suffocating—_ the only sound being the crackle of the low-burning fire in his hearth.

“It’s cold, Sansa,” he replies with a long sigh, and she imagines him rolling his eyes the way he always does when they fight over stupid things like this. But his words are slow and exhausted, and she wonders how difficult it is for him to stay awake now with the medicine still coursing through his body. “If you don’t want to be under the furs with me, I’ll sit atop them. My fever’s been breaking on and off all day—I’m warm enough already.”

He can _feel_ the discomfort radiating off of her as she lies next to him—she knows it. But she _also_ knows that she would have _never_ acted this way with Robb, Arya, Bran, or Rickon—she would have slipped beneath the furs comfortably and without a thought. But does _Jon_ know that? Or does he think she’s just uncomfortable being so close to anyone? Or just _him,_ even?

“It’s not because of you,” she finally turns to look at him, trying to convince him of that even though what he said was true; she _doesn’t_ want to lie beneath the same furs that an almost-naked Jon is sharing with her, and _especially_ when he’s less than an arms length away. But it’s not for the reason he thinks. “I’m not cold—I’m perfectly fine.”

When her eyes dart between his, she can see the exhaustion in them. She can see the sickness, too, and she wishes he would just _sleep._

He looks as if he might reply with something she assumes would be close to: _don’t be so stubborn—just take the bleeding blanket._ But he never does, though; instead he looks at her, in her eyes, then sighs in defeat and lays back down again—blinking hard as he stares at the ceiling. She attempts to hide her heavy breath again as she turns back around and relaxes against her pillow, too—facing away from him.

“Go to sleep, Jon,” she tells him then, in a sharper tone than she meant to (of course—that seems like a common occurrence for the evening, doesn’t it?) She breathes in, closes her eyes, then sighs. Does he even _want_ her here in his chambers, in his bed? Especially when she only sounds exasperated with him the entire time she’s supposed to be helping? She softens her voice as she continues a few moments later: “Please wake me if you need to. If you have a nightmare, if you can’t sleep, if... _anything.”_

There’s a few beats of silence, and she worries that she’s made him despise her from her unintentional rudeness and stubbornness and everything _else_ that’s gone wrong this entire night. She gulps and keeps her eyes shut—the hand beneath her pillow balled into a nervous, anxious fist.

“Alright,” he replies quietly, sleepily, and she breathes out in relief because it sounds _real._ “I will.”

She bites her lip, then, and her tense body relaxes immensely just from _three words_  from him _._ She forgets sometimes that he knows her—the _real_ her—and must know that the way her words come off aren’t always an accurate portrayal of the way she feels. She’s thankful for that, and for his forgiveness and patience and care for her, too.

Without letting herself over think any of it for even a _second,_ she turns her body slightly—just enough to reach behind her and find his hand—tangling her fingers with his. Her body is still tense and her eyebrows still furrowed in uncertainty, unsure of how he may react to it. But it’s only a few moments later when he squeezes her hand in his own, and she feels the relief instantly flood through her body.

His hand is warm and strong, and she’s thankful that neither have to say anything aloud about their intertwined hands as they comfort each other. It’s the first time since the war ended that she feels content and protected and _loved—_ even if it isn’t in the same way she yearns from him.

She lets herself calm down and breathe evenly, finally, as she feels his thumb stroke across the top of her hand—praying he never lets go of it for as long as she lays beside him.

She came in his chambers this evening to comfort _him,_ but didn’t realize how much she needed _his_ comfort, too. It’s something he must have realized, though, because even though _he_ is the one still in a dazed mental state from the milk of the poppy, his thumb still moves against her skin until she finally drifts off to sleep. And even when _she_ falls into a dazed dream state herself, the small part of her that still grasps onto consciousness feels a slight movement on the other side of the bed, before he pulls the furs over her and lets them engulf her shivering body in warmth.     


	3. Tales and Songs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there's always an annoyingly-long gap between updates, but...hey, I still did it!! (it's even a surprise to myself, trust me.)

She wakes before the light of morning even shines in through the window; in fact, the fire in the hearth across from the bed has completely burned out now, leaving her in a deep darkness that blankets the room surrounding her. It makes sense, really, that she’d wake earlier than normal since she fell asleep not long after supper; she usually spends a few more hours tending to people or duties _after_ eating before she resigns to her chambers for the evening. But not last night.

It takes her a moment to even realize where she’s at when she wakes—the bed is much firmer than hers, the air is colder, and the pillow beneath her head isn’t as soft as her own. But none of it is unpleasant at all, just _different._ Especially when she starts to remember _where_ she is and why.

When she’s finally conscious enough to be aware of the room around her, she _also_ feels a weight against her side, too. She feels soft, warm skin against her hand, gently enveloping her own. 

Jon. 

She has the sudden urge to sit up abruptly when she realizes it’s him, but she fights it and keeps entirely still instead. She tells herself it’s because she doesn’t want to wake a sick, barely-ever-resting Jon, but she knows it’s _really_ because she doesn’t want to ruin this moment. This moment that she’s yearned to experience for _far_ too long, where she wakes in Jon’s bed with his arms around her, and his fingers intertwined with her own. 

He’s gotten closer to her during the night (or maybe it was her who got closer to _him_ —she isn’t sure), and his arm now hangs loosely over her side. He’s close enough that they now share a pillow, too, and she can hear him snoring lightly behind her. 

She lets herself imagine that this is something that could happen _every_ morning—where she awakens to the feel of him around her, holding her close. She even allows herself to close her eyes and pull his hand a bit further across her, and pretend it’s all something she _knows_ it isn’t. Something that could make him smile when he awakens every morning and sees her lying next to him, before wrapping his arms _fully_ around her to pull her against him. And then he would kiss her hair, then her neck and her lips, and then—

She grits her teeth and once again fights the urge to push him as far away as she possibly _can,_ because it’s wrong and sick and she _knows_ it (but was unable to stop herself from thinking it anyway—and she’s too aware of how dangerous that could become.) She doesn’t want to wake him with her movements, though, so instead of getting up quickly and loudly, she attempts to slowly detangle her fingers from his, then ease out of bed without a sound. 

As soon as she’s about to set her feet on the floor, though, his hand fumbles for hers in the dark, and gently grabs it in his own.

“Where are you going?” he asks her, his voice a deep, raspy whisper in the quiet blackness of his cold room. 

Her heart races even faster than it had been before, and now she closes her eyes and breathes in, wishing so badly she had been able to leave the bed without him hearing. Because then he wouldn’t be touching her, and then she wouldn’t imagine that he wanted her to stay, and then she could be able to leave the room and escape the spell that his current proximity has her under. 

“I can’t sleep,” she tells him quietly in reply, instead of saying all of the other things she wishes she could speak aloud. He squeezes her hand and she takes in a long, much-needed breath.

It’s a lie, of course, but she knows she can’t tell him the truth. She can _never_ tell him how much it physically _pains_ her to be so near to him, or that his hand in her own makes her yearn for the horrible things that she does. The things that he would _hate_ her for. 

“But _you_ need more rest,” she tells him, breathing in and standing, finally. “I’ll get the fire going again. It’s cold.”

“Alright,” he breathes out quietly, before releasing her hand and falling back down against his pillow with a sigh. “Thank you, Sansa.”

She nods (even though she’s sure it’s too dark for him to see it), before setting her feet on the floor and making her way to his hearth. 

She gets the fire going and tosses a few more logs on top, stoking it enough for the flame to grow and begin to warm the room. She rubs her hands together and feels the gooseflesh run up her arms as she shivers. 

“Come back to bed,” he tells her, and she turns around to see him still awake, and still in bed watching her by the fire. “I’ll lie on top of the furs again. I’m not cold, but I know you are.”

“Just go back to sleep, Jon,” she tells him, turning back around to watch the flames burn and crackle and rise in front of her. “You need the rest.”

She ignores the voice in her head that wishes his  _"c_ _ome back to bed”_ meant something entirely different than what she _knows_ it meant. But it’s still there in the back of her brain, turning it and turning it and _turning_ it until she feels mad with the thought. 

“I can’t sleep knowing you’re over there shaking,” he sighs, his voice still hoarse from sleep. “It’s still warm beneath the furs.”

She takes a moment to think it over, before finally just giving into the urge she already had _before_ Jon coerced her. She _wants_ to lie next to him again, and feel his body heat warm her, but she can’t show _him_ that. And although in her mind she knows why she shouldn’t lie next to him in a warm, cozy bed, there’s no actual reason she could give him as to why she should say _no_ to it.

She lets out a long sigh then, before pulling herself back to her feet. 

The bed looks so inviting even just as she makes her way _towards_ it; the soft, feather pillow, the warm blankets, Jon there next to where her body will lay. It takes everything in her not to just _collapse_ into it when she approaches, but she holds back. Instead, she carefully pulls back the blanket, fluffs her pillow, then climbs in next to him.

Even though it isn’t as warm or soft as her own bed, it’s still seems to be the most comfortable one she’s _ever_ slept in because he’s lying there next to her, and she can feel his warmth even though he isn’t even _touching_ her. 

She wants nothing in the world more than to turn and lay on his outstretched arm, nuzzling into his side and wrapping her arms around him. She wants it so badly that she closes her eyes and takes in a long breath, just to try and push the thought from her mind. It’s not appropriate—not ever—but _especially_ not now, when he’s lying in bed next to her.

She can sense him still awake next to her—hear his movements, hear his sighs as he stares up at the ceiling. It all makes her restless and itching in discomfort—too aware of how close he is.

“The sun won’t rise for another hour or so, I’d say,” she tells him, shifting slightly with her back still facing him. “You should go back to sleep—give your wounds time to heal.”

“As if you and Maester Wolkan won’t have me holed up in bed for the next two weeks to sleep—sun risen or not,” he lets out a long sigh, just as she takes _in_ a breath. 

She turns around in bed then to face him, gritting her teeth and furrowing her eyebrows. 

“Yes, we will,” she replies, sitting up slightly and pressing her palm to the bed to hold herself up. The light on him is dim, but it’s there—enough to make her cheeks warm as his eyes set on her. “You need to _heal,_ Jon, and if you _actually_ think you could be of any help right now in this condition, you’re an idiot. So yes, you _should_ listen to the trained Maester about what you should do to heal, and if it means lying in bed for another two weeks or _five_ weeks, then you’ll do it.” 

She breathes out heavily, her chest rising and falling with it. She’s exasperated with him for so many things now, but still wishes she had dealt with it all internally on her own before she let it _out_ on him. 

She calms her mind and lets out a breath full of regret, her face softening. She shakes her head and looks down, preparing to get out of bed again, and leave him to sleep in _peace._ Because it’s obvious that if she’s there, her unwanted feelings for him come out in outbursts of confused anger. And he doesn’t deserve that. 

But when she looks up to apologize and tell him she’s going to leave him alone to rest, he’s already looking at her with a small, exhausted smile. 

She fights the urge to suddenly smile back, but she keeps her tone and expression steady when she says, “It’s funny to you?”

“Not funny, I just…” he breathes out, looking between her eyes as his smile fades. “Missed this. Missed being home.” 

She relaxes her shoulders back then and nods, finally allowing herself to fully smile now as she looks down at her hand that’s pressed flat against the bed. 

“Missed my concerned lectures, you mean?” she glances up and raises an eyebrow, and his tired eyes crinkle up with a smile too. 

“Yeah, I do,” he laughs in reply, but she can tell from his expression that it's painful for him to laugh with his current wounds. “I also missed my bed, and Winterfell, and...everything else. All of it. Especially when there were so many times I thought I’d never see it again.”

She pauses a moment and breathes in, looking into his eyes sadly. She imagines him in the middle of the siege on King’s Landing, pictures him scared and confused and wondering how he got into such a horrible slaughter in the first place as he watches his own men rape and kill and take and take and _take._

If only he had _listened_ to her, he wouldn’t have gone through so many of the things that gives him nightmares when he sleeps. He would be happy, still, and he wouldn’t be the broken man that’s lying here next to her.

But saying _I told you so_ never helps anyone, does it? Especially not when he’s already suffered so much.

“Well you’re here now,” she tells him, reaching up and setting her hand on his arm for comfort. She instantly wishes she hadn’t, because she can feel his warm skin and the muscles beneath it in his forearm, and her head is now empty of words and thoughts, and she’s _sure_ her expression is making her look entirely dull. So she pulls herself back together, and in doing so she _also_ pulls her hand back to rest at her side. “And I don’t think either of us plan on leaving anytime soon. I don’t, at least.”

She looks up at him and he’s already looking at her, and she presses her fingernails into her palm and swallows thickly as she bites the inside of her cheek. 

“Me neither,” he breathes out, turning to look up at the ceiling. She sees his throat bob with a gulp, and feels the perspiration gather in the center of her palms as she looks at him. “I don’t plan on leaving the north ever _again,_ if I can help it.”

Now he breathes in, his chest rising steadily as if he’s biding his time to decide if he should say what’s on his mind or not, before his chest falls again with a sigh and he speaks. 

“When I was young...I thought I didn’t fit in here, in the north—the bastard son of the great Eddard Stark. The disgrace to the house name. And...maybe I _didn’t_ belong,” he says quietly, and she has to fight the urge to deny that claim, and tell him he _does_ belong—he always has, and that it was everyone _else_ at fault, never him. It’s clear, though, that he has more to say, so she lets him. “I always wished I was somewhere else—wished I was in the south, in the warm sun where fruits and flowers and green plants can grow. Where being a bastard wasn’t something to be shunned, or looked down upon. But now, after traveling all around Westeros and _being_ in the south, I realized that...all I really ever wanted was to be _home._ I just wanted to be _accepted_ in my home, not alone in some foreign place with foreign rules, and where it’s...it’s _too_ warm _._ So horribly warm _all the bleeding time.”_

She had been on the verge of _tears_ hearing him speak of the things he wanted, and the things he assumed he could never have because he was thought to be a bastard, and thought to be a shame to the Stark name. But now she’s smiling and laughing instead at his words, and he looks over at her with a smile, too. A smile that she can feel in her belly, and a smile that makes her clench her fist nervously as she bites the inside of her cheek. 

She takes in a long breath before replying.

“You may not be a bastard, Jon, but even if you were...you changed _everything_ for the people in Westeros,” she lets out a breathy exhale, looking between his eyes as her smile fades. “You were thought to be a bastard when you were made Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and you were thought to be a bastard when you took back Winterfell and became King in the North. You were _still_ thought to be a bastard when you formed an alliance between the Free Folk and the Night’s Watch—people that were made enemies _thousands_ of years ago, and have kept that hatred going ever since. And when the real war came, the long night, you had the north behind you, the Free Folk behind you, the Dothraki behind you, and two _dragons_ behind you. You’ve always belonged, Jon, maybe more so than even _I_ have: a trueborn daughter of Ned Stark. You _made_ me believe in you, a bastard, along with everyone else in Westeros, too. And because of you, no one will ever mistreat someone for their surname of Snow or Sand or Waters again—because they will forever remember Jon Snow: the man who saved Westeros, and the man who turned down his right to the throne and his trueborn Targaryen name so he could finally live a life of normalcy, of peace. You’ve done so much that you aren’t even aware of, Jon, and even if we had never figured out your true heritage, and that you aren’t a bastard...it wouldn’t have changed any of it. Not even a little. It was you—it was _always_ you—not your name or title or any of the rest of it.”

She lost her own breath even saying it aloud—telling him how much he really means to her, and disguising it as how much he means to _everyone._ She clutches her fingers even firmer against the furs, attempting to ground herself and her spinning head. 

“You belong, Jon—you always have,” she continues quietly, giving a small, genuine smile. “It was only the ones who didn’t understand things yet that didn’t see it; me, my mother, and everyone else who treated you poorly when we were children. You were leagues ahead of us and we didn’t realize it. Some never got to see you for what you truly are, but I’m thankful that I’m able to.”

“Don’t, Sansa,” he shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling again with a humble, disbelieving huff. 

“Don’t what?” she asks, nudging his shoulder playfully. But her smile falters when he doesn’t return it. 

“I just…” he sighs out, still staring up at nothing so he doesn’t have to face the compliments she’s giving him head on. “I don’t know. Forget it.”

She hesitates a moment, furrowing her eyebrows at him. But still he stares up at the ceiling.

“Have you not done the things I’ve said?” she says quietly, shaking her head. “Don’t be so modest, Jon.” 

He turns his head on his pillow and finally looks at her, in her eyes, and she fights the urge to shrink away into the bed, away from his gaze. But she holds herself still, and keeps her expression carefully fixed. 

“I’m not being _modest,_ I just…” he exhales, then shakes his head again. “You make me sound as if I’m something I’m not.”

“Think what you want, but hundreds of years from now, when these great wars are told to children in tales and songs, they’ll be speaking and singing about Jon Snow—the man who saved Westeros, and the man who brought peace between so many people who hadn’t had it for so long,” she tells him, and now she smiles slightly as she thinks of it all herself. “I know you don’t want tales told or songs sung of you, but they will be. For years and years they will, and for generations to come.”

He’s still disbelieving, of course—it’s clear. But it’s all true, no matter if he believes it or not.

“Maybe,” Jon takes in a long, thoughtful breath, letting out a huff. “I suppose it just doesn’t seem so great when you live it.”

“No, maybe not,” she shrugs, relaxing her shoulder against her pillow. “But it’s over, and you’re home and out of harm’s way now. And after we’ve feared for our lives for so many years, maybe it’s time we get to settle down and live the way father always wanted for us—the life he and mother and Robb and Rickon _should_ have been able to live. And maybe instead of dying in a brutal, bloody war like we thought we would for so long, we’ll die of old age in our beds after living the rest of our lives in peace.”

“I hope you're right,” he hums quietly, and she watches his finger tap the bed beneath him. “After everything—the wars and loss and my death, even—it’s odd to think all of that is in my grasp now. That it’s actually _possible,_ and not just something I dreamed up to help me get through the next terrible, blood-ridden war. It’s going to take some getting used to.”

“For me too,” she nods in agreement, before fully laying her head down on the pillow, and tucking her hand beneath it as she looks over at him. “But I look forward to the peace I’ll have during the adjustment.”

His mouth twitches up in a smile, which makes _her_ smile even bigger now as she watches him. She feels the nervous pit in her belly again, and the more she looks at him, the bigger it grows. 

A few moments pass in silence, but it’s _comfortable._ The room is quiet, maybe, but it’s filled with their buzzing thoughts on the conversation they had, and how content they are to be home. 

She thinks that may have been the end of their talking for the rest of the still-dark morning, but Jon is eventually the one to speak again. 

“They’ll sing of you too, you know,” Jon tells her quietly, and her eyes blink open to see him staring up at the ceiling still. “Of the great and beautiful and brave Sansa Stark—the Queen in the North.”

“A girl becoming queen because of her birthright is hardly song-worthy,” she laughs a little in reply, but feels her breath catch at his words.

“You _fought_ for it, Sansa,” he turns and looks at her, furrowing his eyebrows. “It was never just birthright. If it weren’t for you, the Boltons would still hold Winterfell, and warden the north. Your people would still be enslaved by him, and everyone _else_ would be enslaved by Daenerys Targaryen. The world would have fallen before I even had the _chance_ to save it. You get angry at me for being modest, but you went through so much and still came back stronger and smarter than _any_ of us. You saved me, Sansa, from god knows what sort of punishment. There’s no one more fit to rule the north—to rule Winterfell—no matter birthrights. I’ll write my own bleeding song about it if I have to.”

He smiles at her now, and she shakes her head as she laughs and darts her eyes away from his, attempting to hide the annoying flush in her cheeks. 

She's been through torture and manipulation and has been beaten and beaten and  _beaten_  until she thought she had lost herself entirely,and yet she can so easily become a stupid girl, still, who blushes at kind words when they're coming from someone like Jon.

“You’re an idiot,” she laughs in reply to him, her cheeks aching from smiling so much—smiling more than she has in _so long._ She sighs before pushing her lips together, and finally looking back over at him, and taking a few moments to compose herself so her voice doesn't tremble when she continues. “But thank you, Jon. Really.”

He smiles and nods and looks at her for a moment, before turning back to stare up at the ceiling again. His smile fades soon after but hers stays for much longer—even when his blinking becomes heavy, and his breath begins to even out, and his eyes finally shut as he falls back into sleep again. 

Getting closer to him and laughing and smiling with him should make her feel _better,_ really,after being alone and having no one to be close to for so long. But because of the feelings she has for him that she tries _so desperately_ to bury away deep within herself, speaking with him so seriously only brings it all rushing back to the surface, and makes it all that much more painful. The guilt she feels, the shame, the _disgust_ in herself...it’s all because she had a good, honest talk with him, and nothing about that seems fair. And with the pit in her belly now growing larger than it’s been for a long while, she watches the sun rise through his window with the horrible regret of even coming to his chambers in the first place. 


	4. Persuasion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you guys for supporting me and this story (even through my horribly late updates!)

She doesn’t fall back asleep like he does—she couldn’t even if she _wanted_ to. So when she decides she can’t lay there next to him and hear his steady breaths any longer, or ignore the way his hand is _so close_ to her own on the bed that it’s driving her mad even when she isn’t even _looking_ at it, she eases out of bed carefully enough to _not_ wake him this time. 

When she stands, she looks down at him asleep on the bed, thinking over his words from only hours ago: _“_ _There’s no one more fit to rule the north—to rule Winterfell—no matter birthrights. I’ll write my own bleeding song about it if I have to.”_

She shakes away her thoughts and tears her eyes from him, before walking around his bed as quietly as she can. She sighs and shakes her head as she picks up his untouched plate from the nightstand she left yesterday, before turning to look at him one last time before she goes. 

He’s lying there sound asleep with his lips parted as he takes in slow, even breaths. His face is peaceful and free of distress—free of the worry lines that formed when he was having his nightmare. His skin is drenched in sweat, though, with the breaking of another fever, and he’s lying atop the furs just as he said he would for her. 

She watches him then for a few moments—still too long, she knows—but right as she’s about to turn around and leave, he shifts slightly and sighs, stretching his arm out across the bed where she was lying only moments ago. 

She can’t help but wonder if he’s searching for her—even in this state of unconscious.

But soon after he lets out a huff of air and his arm moves beneath her pillow, before he’s entirely still again. She bites her lip and hesitates for only a moment, before shaking her head and turning around, making her way through his chamber door, and shutting it quietly behind her. 

She wishes she didn’t have to go—wishes she didn’t feel the way she did, either, so that she didn’t have to feel _guilty_ enough to leave him there all alone. 

Will he wonder where she is when he wakes? Will he miss her now that she’s gone, knowing she had duties to tend to, or will he be _glad_ she’s left him—glad that he can finally be alone without her annoying him with her presence? 

She almost bumps into a handmaiden when she leaves his chambers—too far in her distracting thoughts to see her there with a plate of breakfast to bring to him. 

“I’m so sorry, Your Grace,” the girl tells Sansa, clearly worried she’ll be angry with her.

“Don’t be; I was the one who should have been paying closer attention to where I was walking,” Sansa replies with a kind smile, but swallows back a thick, nervous gulp that she hopes isn’t obvious.

The girl smiles anxiously and nods, bowing to her. But when she rises, Sansa catches her eyes glance to Jon’s door, then back to Sansa curiously. But the curiosity disappears soon after, and the girl subtly clears her throat and smiles again. 

“You’re taking that to Jon?” Sansa asks her, keeping her posture intact and her hands clasped behind her. She can’t give her a _reason_ to be suspicious when she already seems to be just from seeing her leave his chambers so early in the morning. 

“I am, Your Grace,” the girl replies, and Sansa nods. “I was ordered to do so by Maester Wolkan. I suppose he didn’t realize you would...be here already.”

The girl is kind, Sansa knows, but her words have a confusion to them, too—wondering _why_ the queen is there so early in the morning, with her hair a mess and wearing the same clothes she had been wearing the previous day.  

Maybe she’s only paranoid, but if the girl _is_ suspicious in that way...Sansa doesn’t want to push it any further. So she keeps herself composed, and doesn’t let the nerves she’s feeling show.

“He’s asleep now, so make sure to be as quiet as possible when leaving it for him, please,” Sansa tells her kindly, “He needs his rest while he heals. Thank you.”

The girl nods and bows slightly, before they pass each other and go their separate ways. 

Sansa heads to the Great Hall to eat, and although the food is good and the people are as joyful as ever, her mind can still only stay settled on one thing: Jon.

She’s at least decently certain that he doesn’t know of her feelings for him  now—not the way he was speaking to her, and telling her he would make songs about her. Because she knows Jon, and if he knew of the way she felt, he wouldn’t be feeding into her delusions by saying such things—he wouldn’t want to hurt her worse than she already is, even if he’s repulsed by it. So as much as she worries and as much as her mind reels, she at least doesn’t have to worry about _that_ part of it all. 

But all of the _rest_ of it...she _definitely_ worries about that. 

They were holding hands in bed when they fell asleep and _still_ were when they awoke hours later, and he was close enough that she could feel his breath on the back of her neck, too. 

She shivers at the thought, feeling gooseflesh cover every inch of her skin as she remembers what it felt like, and how secure and happy and _content_ she had been in that moment with him there next to her. It was the first time in so long that she felt safe and _cared_ for, too, after thinking she may never feel those things again.

She looks around the Great Hall, making sure no one around had seen the stupid, girlish smile she was wearing even when she hadn’t meant to even give it at all. But when she looks around, everyone is much too preoccupied with the food on the plates in front of them to pay her any real attention (which she’s grateful for.)

She lets out a relieved breath and continues eating—this time paying more attention to the way she presents her exterior. Just in case.

She goes about her day as normally as she can after that: looking over scrolls, replying to ravens, helping the ill and injured that are still in the infirmary (or in their own chambers, if they’re lucky), checking supplies. But she feels her mind is so muddled from last night, that she’s only halfway in the real world the entire day.

By the time it’s supper, she still hasn’t checked on Jon and she doesn’t know how he’s doing, either. Part of her feels guilty for it, she admits to herself—guilty for leaving, guilty for pretending not to care, guilty for exaggerating the length of her duties so it’s an excuse not to see him. But when she gets a knock on the door of her solar, she knows somehow that it has to do with him. 

“He’s asking for you, Your Grace,” is the first thing Maester Wolkan tells her after she’s allowed him into her study. She has a headache from focusing too hard and for too long, so she presses her fingers to her temple as she looks up at him. 

She knows who he’s talking about, of course, but she doesn’t want the Maester to see that Jon is obviously the only person who has been constantly on her mind today. So she pretends _not_ to know who he’s speaking of, and tops the look of feign confusion off with furrowed eyebrows as she asks, _“Who is?”_

“Jon Snow, my queen,” Maester Wolkan approaches her desk, and she sits back slightly in her chair and relaxes her shoulders—trying to look at ease even when she feels everything _but_ that. 

That’s another thing she’s had to get used to as well when she returned from King’s Landing: everyone calling her _‘My Queen’_ or _‘Your Grace’_ while Jon—previously the King in the North—is renounced of any and all titles, and only addressed by his bare name. Not by Aegon Targaryen, not by Lord Jon, not by _King_ Jon—only by Jon Snow. 

She supposes he may be grateful to be a nobody again, but it still even stings _her_ a bit knowing that the man who saved Westeros is ripped from any and all titles and is only minimized to “Snow” again—something that means so little now that the world was almost completely destroyed only _months_ ago _._ And it’s all by his own people, at that.

“Is he alright?” she asks, turning her full attention to the Maester now.

“He is,” Maester Wolkan nods, keeping his hands clasped behind him. “But he told me he would like to speak to you whenever you were relieved of your duties.”

She leans back in her chair slightly and darts her eyes to her desk, fighting the inner part of herself whose stomach leaps nervously— _happily_ —hearing that Jon wants to see her again, and speak to her. 

But smiling after hearing that (or even looking _happy,_ really) isn’t how a cousin would act—nor a sister or queen, either. 

So she puts on the _entirely unaffected_ expression she’s been perfecting ever since seeing him again at Castle Black all that time ago, and looks back up at Maester Wolkan. 

“If it isn’t urgent, I suppose I should finish up here first,” she tells him, sighing over all of the open scrolls she’s been pouring over for what’s felt like _days_ now. “Lots to do.”

“Understood, Your Grace,” he bows, but hovers in his spot still—not making a move to leave yet.

“Is there anything else?” she asks, raising an eyebrow curiously.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he steps forward again, before sighing. “Jon Snow refuses his medicine even when informed him that it’s crucial for his health.”

“The milk of the poppy, you mean?” Sansa asks, darting her eyes between his as he nods. “Well I can’t exactly blame him—he didn’t have such a good time with it last night.”

He doesn’t even look at her oddly when she says that, but her paranoia and guilty conscience take over anyway to try and clarify. 

“He told me that this morning, I mean, when I went to check on him,” she clears her throat slightly, and in doing so looks even _guiltier._ “Restless most of the night, with the fever breaking horribly on and off every few hours. Is it fully necessary or do you think he could heal without it?”

“The reason he was restless and breaking fever isn’t _because_ of the milk of the poppy, it’s because he’s fighting off infection, Your Grace,” the Maester explains, and Sansa’s heart quickens. “As you well know, he spent weeks traveling back to Winterfell with only loose, unclean bandages around his wounds. He was ill and famished, and should have been resting _then,_ but didn’t. And his body is now catching up to him with that sickness.”

She takes in a sharp breath as he continues: “The milk of the poppy numbs the pain and heals while the ill rest. And I guarantee it’s the only reason he even got a _moment_ of sleep yesterday evening. Not because the medicine was _hurting_ him, but because it was helping.”

She takes a moment to think over his words, choosing them carefully. 

“And you told him all of this?” she asks, running her finger against the rough parchment that’s still resting in her lap.

“I did, Your Grace,” he nods, and she looks down and sighs. “He’s quite stubborn.”

“He’s a fool, is what he is,” she shakes her head, leaning forward slightly to rest her elbow on the desk in front of her, before pinching the bridge of her nose. “What do you suggest?”

“I thought you yourself may be able to convince him when you go to speak later, Your Grace,” he replies, sounding exasperated with Jon himself. “Maybe knock some sense into the boy.”

“And what makes you think _I_ can convince him?” she asks, looking up at him. “You’re a trained Maester; I imagine if you can’t convince him then _no one_ can.”

“But _you_ already did, My Queen,” he replies, giving a small, encouraging  smile. “Last night you did. He’s been home four days now, and I’ve tried to convince him three out of four of those days. The only time he took it is when _you_ asked him to. He’s been through a lot, Your Grace, so there’s no doubt he has trouble trusting people who he isn’t close to, which is understandable given the circumstances. But it’s clear he trusts _you,_ and not much of anyone else here at the moment, I wonder sometimes.”

She takes a few moments to think that over and process it all, before slowly nodding in reply.

“I suppose I can try, then,” she answers quietly, sitting up straighter and smoothing out her skirts distractedly. 

“That’s all I ask, Your Grace,” he answers, bowing once again. “I should go and tend to others, then, I suppose. Thank you for your time.”

“And thank you for your advice, Maester,” she nods and gives a small smile, before he turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him. 

As soon as he does, she lets out a long breath and allows her shoulders to fall from the rigid, tense pose she had them in, to relax back down at her sides again. 

As she sits there and takes a moment to regulate her breathing, she desperately wonders what Jon wants to see her about. Is it serious? Is it minor, and she only _thinks_ it could be serious because she’s been thinking of him since the moment she left his chambers this morning?

Either way, she sets her mind to her tasks first as she told the Maester she would; after all, she is the _queen,_ and knows that there are more important things to sort out before dealing with her own selfish, _stupid_ thoughts and wants, anyway. 

So she spends a little over half an hour pouring over words on parchment until they’re all starting to blend and blur together. By the time her eyes are too tired to keep reading anything at _all,_ she decides to put away her things and give in, finally—making sure that she would _normally_ stop at this point, and that she’s not doing so just because Jon wants to speak to her.

After deciding she’s gotten an acceptable amount of work done, she finally stands and leaves her study, taking in a long breath as she makes her way to Jon’s chambers. 

She hears his voice give her permission to enter once she’s knocked on his chamber door, and she takes in yet _another_ long, dizzying breath, before twisting his doorknob and entering. 

He’s there looking at her, already anticipating her arrival, she assumes, because he sits up slightly and smiles weakly—looking tired, still, even after sleeping for so long last night (and probably even _more_ today.) 

“Maester Wolkan said you wanted to speak to me,” she walks forward, clasping her hands together behind her back as she stands at a respectable distance from his bed. “I hope you weren’t waiting too long—I had some things to finish up before I could come.”

“That’s alright,” his smile widens and her heart skips, but she doesn’t let that show. She keeps a straight face and a serious demeanor, standing in place. 

He doesn’t say anything, so she does first.

“He said you need more milk of the poppy but you refused it from him,” she looks at him, in his eyes, and pretends that he _isn’t_ the only thing she’s been able to think of today. “Why is that?”

His smile slowly drops to a frown as he looks away from her, and she lets out a breath now that his dark eyes aren’t burning holes in her own. 

“I don’t want it,” he tells her with a sigh, laying back against pillow. “I don’t like the way it makes me feel, or the things I say and dream when I take it, either.”

“But you’d rather be feverish and in pain?” she asks, taking a step forward with a confused scoff. “Jon, Maester Wolkan told me you’re ill. He told me you have an infection from your long travels where your wounds weren’t properly taken care of. It will help you—whether you want it or not.”

“Why does it matter so much?” he asks, suddenly defensive as he sits up slightly and  furrows his eyebrows. 

“Are you kidding?” she laughs in annoyance, letting out a shallow breath. “Because you _need_ the medicine to heal, Jon. _You’re ill.”_

“But you don’t understand why I wouldn’t want to trust him, or take medicine from him?” Jon retorts, furrowing his eyebrows. “This _‘Maester Wolkan’?_ The one who served under Ramsay when he was Lord of Winterfell?”

“You think he _wanted_ to serve under Ramsay? He was a slave to him just as I was,” she replies, shaking her head and gritting her teeth. “Jon, he...he saved my life. When Ramsay beat me, and tortured me, and defiled me...Maester Wolkan went behind his back to _help_ me. He helped me even though he could be tortured as well, if Ramsay found out about it. He helped me survive, when I wasn’t sure I even _wanted_ to. He’s helped the people of Winterfell day and _night_ after the wars, too. I trust him—he’s one of the few people I do. And you can, too—I swear it.”

Jon looks between her eyes and lets out a labored, breathless sigh, letting his chest fall with it. “I’m...sorry,” he tells her, diverting his eyes down and away from hers in shame. “I didn’t know.”

She stands there for a moment and sighs, before moving to sit down at the edge of his bed—forgetting her nerves altogether. She always does when she’s around him, really, no matter how much she lets them build up beforehand in anticipation.

“There’s no need to apologize,” she replies quietly, staring down at her damp, trembling hands that she soon settles on her skirts. “I never told you—how could you have known? I understand your hesitation—really, I do.”

She feels his eyes look back to her again, but she pretends not to notice as she bites her bottom lip in thought.

“But Jon,” she turns back to him, her expression softening immensely. “You have to heal. Just because you’re home and safe doesn’t mean you’re immune to illness. And...I can’t lose you, too. I don’t know what I would do.”

She didn’t plan on saying that—or being sappy at _all,_ for that matter. In fact, she was actually trying to _avoid_ it after her embarrassing speech to him last night. But it slipped out anyway, and the conversation is _already_ deep and serious after only _minutes_ of her being here. 

She hates that. 

“You won’t,” he assures her, reaching forward to set his hand on her arm (even though she knows it must be painful from his wounds.) “I was being stupid, and didn’t know the circumstances. I thought I would have learned from my mistakes now, but...I guess not.”

“You couldn’t have known,” she replies, turning to look at him finally. But she purposely doesn’t look down at his hand on her arm. “But please, Jon, take the medicine. Heal. For me, if not yourself. I can’t do this without you here—not any of it.”

The words foolishly slip from her mouth as she looks at him, in his dark eyes, and she takes in an uneven breath as their eyes lock. She holds onto the hope that it’s still something a cousin could say, though, and keeps herself composed. 

He looks back at her—in her eyes, too—and parts his lips to breathe in. 

“Alright,” he nods, pulling his hand away from hers and leaning back to rest against his pillow. “I’ll take it.”

“You will?” she asks, looking in his eyes in surprise. She wasn’t even sure she could convince him herself, but she didn’t even have to put in too much effort, really. 

He nods, then, and she smiles, before standing and grabbing the vial of it from his nightstand that Maester Wolkan left. She mixes it in with a glass of water, before handing it to him and saying, “It’ll help. And it’s only a small amount—you’ll dream and sleep, but not for days. It will ease the pain, and slow the infection.”

He looks at her and breathes in, before taking it from her outstretched hand, and sipping it until it’s gone. Then he gives it back to her, and she sets it back down on the nightstand. 

“You’ll feel it very soon, as you know,” she tells him, taking in a breath. “But before I go...what is that you wanted to speak to me about?”

“There wasn’t a particular reason,” he replies, looking up at her with a small smile. “I just don’t get much company here, and...I wanted to see you, I suppose. Someone I know.”

He suddenly looks like he regrets saying it—sitting up slightly as he corrects himself. “You’re my only family here now, and I’m not sure anyone else even wants me here at all anymore. It gets lonely after a while. I’m...sorry if you were busy—I was selfish not to think of that.”

“You wanted company—I understand,” she replies, swallowing back a gulp as she fights the urge to step forward and run a comforting hand through his hair. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

She watches him closely and sees the relief of her reply in the way his shoulders relax and he lets out a long breath. She feels guilty now for the fact that she put coming to see him off— especially when it’s clear now that he needed her, and she was too caught up in her own personal feelings to realize that.

“I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep, then, if you’d like,” she tells him, giving a small, genuine smile. It’s hard to look directly at him sometimes, but she _has_ to, so she does. It would be humiliating if the Queen in the North could do all the things she does, but couldn’t look at a man straight on. She’s better than this—she knows it. 

“Alright,” he replies a bit breathlessly, probably feeling ashamed to admit he needs company, she assumes, by the look on his face. “Thank you.”

“Of course—you’d do it for me,” she replies with a nod, before walking around the edge of his bed, and then climbing beneath the furs and resting her head on the pillow beneath her. 

Her heart is racing and her palms are sweating profusely, but she shifts her body to turn and look at him. The milk of the poppy hits quickly, she’s heard, so the fact that he’s most likely already feeling it eases her own nerves a bit. 

He’s wearing a loose, dark shirt (instead of no shirt at all like before, thank the gods) as he turns to face her in the bed now—pushing the furs off of his body so he can sit on top of them instead. 

“You don’t need to do that,” she tells him with a sigh, adjusting her face on the pillow. “It’s fine if we’re under the same furs—they’re yours, anyway. If anyone should be moving, it’s me.”

“I’d never ask you to do that after you’ve already gone out of your way for me,” he shakes his head, his eyes looking between hers so deeply that it makes her shift uneasily beneath his gaze. “You have so many times.”

“You deserve care just as much as anyone else,” she tells him with a sad sigh, looking between his eyes, too, as hard as it is. “So stop saying things like that—like you don’t deserve it, or need it. Everyone does.”

His eyes already look dazed as he nods in response, blinking heavily with a small smile playing at the corner or his lips. 

“Alright,” is all he says in reply—his voice a low, raspy whisper. 

“Don’t fight the sleep any longer,” she tells him, forcing a smile in response as she reaches up and pushes the loose curls from his face and tucks them behind his ear, then gently ghosts her thumb across his cheek. “I’ll be here.”

She’s found that it’s _much_ easier to touch him and whisper to him when he’s _so obviously_ not in his right mind (and hopefully won’t even _remember_ any of her sappy words or soft touches.) But it somehow doesn’t make him any less difficult to look at when he smiles at her like _that,_ though, either. 

“You just want to be able to leave, don’t you?” he asks with a small laugh—his eyelids heavy and his words lower and more strung out now. “I don’t want to keep you here if you don’t want to be. Or if you have other things to do.”

“I’ve already finished my duties,” she tells him with a shake of her head, pulling her hand back to rest at her side. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep—whether that’s minutes or hours.”

He looks at her for a few more moments—making her heart pound _erratically—_ before he nods at her and gives a tiny, barely-noticeable smile and nod. 

She looks at him for another beat, then two, then three, before turning on her _other_ side to face away from him. She makes herself comfortable and finally allows herself to gulp, before closing her eyes and taking in a long breath. 

She feels Jon shift a few times on the other side of the bed over the course of several minutes, but it doesn’t take long for his breath to even out as the wave of medicine-induced sleep settles over him. 

It’s relieving that she can leave now, she thinks; relieving yet disappointing at the same time. She had arrived here planning to be strong and composed, but she crumbles like the honey shortbread Old Nan used to make every single time he looks at her, or speaks to her, or tells her (without actually telling her) that he wants her to stay with him. 

Guilt pulls at her heart and tugs and tugs and _tugs_ —causing the breath to leave her lungs in the cold, dark room. She’s humiliated that she can’t keep herself held together as hard as she tries, and she’s humiliated knowing that if anyone found out about her warped, _depraved_ feelings for him—and how she’s sleeping in his _bed_ with him—they would _hate_ her—her own _people_. 

How could they ever want her as their queen if they knew? And how could Jon ever want to see her again if _he_ knew?

She grits her teeth and pushes it all back and away as _far_ as she can until her fists clench at her sides and she steadies her own breath. This isn’t the place to think of these things—not when he’s lying here next to her sound asleep. It’s not right, and as much as she had been trying to _help_ him by coming to his chambers, she can’t help but feel she’s done more harm than good—even though he’s asleep and entirely unknowing of her shameful thoughts.

Once she’s pulled herself fully together and is _sure_ that Jon’s asleep (without turning and looking, of course, so she doesn’t wake him), she holds her breath as she begins to slowly, quietly ease off of the edge of his bed. 

She thinks she’s made it safely as she starts to pull herself to her feet, but then she feels a hand on her back that _almost_ makes her jump in surprise. 

“Stay,” Jon whispers in a quiet, vulnerable voice, and she can feel him nuzzling his face against her back, against her dress. His voice is so broken and empty that she feels her heart aching for him; for his pain, for his guilt, for his losses. It’s clear the medicine has gotten to his head, but that doesn’t it make it any less difficult for her to handle. “Please stay—even if it isn’t much longer.”

She takes in a sharp breath and shuts her eyes, wishing he hadn’t asked her that. Because it makes her mind wish for things she _knows_ he doesn’t mean; not in the same way she wants, at least.

She’s sitting still at the edge of his bed, now, with his strong arm wrapped securely around her waist, and she can feel his breathing patterns against the back of her dress. His breath that had been so even and steady only a few  _seconds_ ago is now heavy against her.

Her heart _pounds and pounds and pounds,_ and her hands would shake too, she knows, if she were to move them at all. 

She wishes with everything in her that she could just give in, and not just have to _hope_ he meant it in the way she wants him to. She wishes she could ease into his touch, and his kind words, and settle back beneath the warm bed next to him and hold him close.

“I’m not sure if that’s…the best idea at the moment,” she replies with a gulp, shutting her eyes and tilting her head downward in regret.

He freezes at that, suddenly uncomfortable from her response—even with how dazed he must be, now, and how hard he’s fighting sleep. Jon never asks _anyone_ for help and _especially_ not for comfort, so when he does _…_ he must really mean it. And that’s yet _another_ reason why this is all so difficult.

“If you don’t want to stay, then…” he starts and eases back on the bed, pulling his arms from around her waist. She sighs again and feels her heart sink. It’s tense between them now, when only a few _minutes_ ago they were so at relaxed laying in bed next to each other. But she denied him comfort, even though she had told him she would give it willingly. She had given him peace knowing he could ask it of her, only to have her refuse it when he did.

It’s all confusing and she wishes she _could_ stay with him—so badly she aches, actually—especially when he was holding her that way and asking her in a voice that clearly means he _needs_ it—needs _her._  

But she’s already ruined it again, hasn’t she?

“It’s not that I don’t _want_ to,” she explains, trying to make him understand only a specific aspect of _why_ she shouldn’t stay, but carefully withholding the _whole_ reason. “It’s that...this morning, when I was leaving your chambers, the handmaiden bringing your meal looked at me as if...”

She stops herself and sighs, shaking her head as she shuts her eyes.

“As if what?” he asks, lifting his head to look at her curiously. Can he really not see where this is going? Does he not think it odd that _cousins_ yearn so badly to be near to one another at night now? Or is _she_ the odd one to think there’s something wrong with it just because of her feelings for him?

“As if she was suspicious of me being here, in your chambers…overnight,” she replies in a quiet voice, finding it extremely difficult to speak the words aloud. “It’s not a great look for the Queen in the North to be sleeping in chambers that aren’t her own.”

“Sleeping in my chambers because _I_ asked you to while I’m ill? After I was away for months and you’re my only family left here in Winterfell?” he replies, and she bites her lip and presses her nails into her palms.

She hesitates, feeling her heart pounding rapidly in her chest. 

“That’s not how they see it.” she whispers to him, wondering if he understands her implications.  

There’s a short pause from him, and her mind _reels_ for the entirety of it.

“And how do _you_ see it?” he asks her hesitantly, and her body goes rigid once again. She can’t tell if he’s asking her that out of _hope_ or complete disgust, so she thinks of her reply very, very carefully before speaking it aloud.

“That we’re two people who know each other better than anyone else here maybe ever could,” she tells him in a low, nervous voice, feeling her hands trembling no matter how hard she tries to steady them. “That we’re still broken in ways from things that have happened, and need to be healed by one another’s presence and understanding and familiarity and comfort. I know I do, at least.”

There’s a moment of silence between them then that feels like an _eternity_ to her.

“I don’t know what’s so wrong with that,” he replies, still keeping a distance between them on the bed that she wishes she could tell him he didn’t _need_ to keep. She _wants_ him there next to her, holding her—as long as they’re hidden away in his chambers, where no one will know. But she can’t ask that of him; it would ruin everything she’s trying to convince him (and herself) of—especially after she’s practically already pushed him away with her words.

“I suppose there _isn’t_ anything wrong with it,” she swallows thickly, ignoring all of the intrusive thoughts buzzing in her brain. She does note, though, that speaking to him this way is much easier in the dark, when she doesn’t have to _fully_ face him, and the thought of daylight and responsibilities hardly even feel _real_ anymore. “But not everyone has gone through the things we have—the betrayal, the bloodshed, the loss. Not everyone can understand it, and it isn’t fair of me to expect them to. All they see...all they see is cousins—their queen being one of them—sleeping in a bed together in unclear, possibly suspicious circumstances. They don’t get the other things, the other factors. How could they?”

She breathes it all out in a quiet, rushed voice, before shaking her head and turning away again. 

“I understand the pressure and fear that comes with ruling,” he tells her quietly, and she bites her lip as she stares into the comforting darkness of his chambers. “I do. But you can’t let it rule _you,_ Sansa. You can’t feel guilt for everything you do, or every decision you make. I learned that the hard way.”

She takes a moment to compose herself _again_ and to make sure her voice won’t tremble, before she finally turns back to look at him and reply. 

“I’m trying to learn,” she whispers with a sad, forced laugh, before biting the inside of her cheek. “And I will—it’ll just take time, I think.”

She can see him in the dim light of the fire burning in his hearth, and she can see his small smile and nod of encouragement. 

She clenches her jaw tightly as her mind reels and reels and reels, until she finally says, “I suppose I can stay a bit longer, if you want.”

“I do,” he breathes out sleepily, his voice full of exhaustion and his eyes overwhelmed with a dull haze. “But only if _you_ do.”

She takes in a sharp breath and looks at him for a few beats, thinking it all over. Then, as she settles back in the bed beside him, she replies with: “Yes, I do.”


End file.
